


This is War

by GodsHumbleClown



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Blood, Horseraces, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:49:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27341500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GodsHumbleClown/pseuds/GodsHumbleClown
Summary: Bryan Denton, war correspondent.What does that really mean?
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17
Collections: Canon Era Newsies One Shots





	This is War

After all the excitement that came from covering a strike that shut down the entire city, one would think that Bryan Denton would find a simple assignment of covering the horse races to be boring. 

It wasn't boring, it was simple, and there was a difference. 

Denton held his notepad close and wandered through the crowd, sure to stop and smile at any newsboy he saw. Most were unfamiliar faces, but he recognized a few.

"Hey, Denton!" Called a voice from one of said familiar boys. 

Racetrack Higgins grinned down at him from the fence, which he probably was not supposed to be climbing on.

"Finally took my advice ta get rich?"

Denton chuckled. 

"No, thank you, Racetrack. I'm just here for the sports column." He waved his notepad as proof. 

"Well in that case," Racetrack spat a bit of chewing tobacco on the ground, a new habit in an attempt to replace the cigars. 

"Come on, I can get you the best view."

Racetrack hopped from his perch and dragged Denton by the arm, narrowly avoiding knocking into just about every individual in the crowd. 

They wandered in such a winding, confusing manner that Denton was fairly sure Racetrack actually had no idea where they were going. 

Finally, Racetrack stopped, at a surprisingly good vantage point. From here, just behind the entrance, they could see nearly the entire track, and Denton couldn't help but be impressed. Most importantly, the crowd was in front of them, with a solid wall behind. No pushing or shoving was also appreciated, in his opinion. 

"See?" Racetrack said proudly. "You can see everything. Everything." The boy gestured like a carnival peddler with a rigged game before turning back to watch the horses lining up. 

"That's Red Flyer over there, she's consistently mediocre. And that big black one is Brooklyn's Triumph, never once won a damn thing, some triumph. My money's on Shining Queen, the bay." He pointed to a spirited female whose rider had a surprising amount of control over, considering how slim the man was. 

"And who's that?" Denton gestured with his pen to a skittish-looking buckskin who was clearly not enjoying the hustle and bustle of the races. 

Racetrack waved a hand dismissively. 

"That's Desert Dawn. She's brand new, ain't nobody who's seen her run an' likes the odds on her. Unpredictable. Maybe she does good, maybe not." 

He shrugged. "Maybe good for a toss up bet, just because. Or you're desperate."

Bryan wasn't a betting man, but he'd been known to stack his odds on untested horses, as it were. A ragged army of boys who wanted to take on the world, he'd certainly bet on them, and that turned out just fine. 

A bit exhausting, suddenly inheriting the role of father to about thirty children, but Bryan Denton was never one to shy away from a challenge. 

Finally, the crowd quieted just a bit as the announcer started shouting to be heard. 

Racetrack hopped up on the wall bordering the grounds, leaning forward like a gargoyle to watch the race begin. 

The horses shifted in excitement; they knew what was coming, and they couldn't wait. 

A shot went off to start the race, making the hair on Denton's neck stand on end. So loud, so very loud. 

One of the horses reared up in surprise, knocking her rider half out of his saddle. Desert Dawn, the new, untested horse. 

Clearly she didn't like the gun. Denton didn't like the gun. He didn't like the gun and he didn't like the beautiful animal's panicked scream, and suddenly he didn't like the crowd, either. 

He'd heard guns before. Heard horses. Heard guns fire and horses shriek and seen men fall, watched as the horses crumbled to the ground, screaming in agony, dragging themselves away to die for a cause that meant nothing to a horse. 

Denton couldn't breathe. The air was hot and filled with noise, the stench of sweat and blood and death enveloping the crowd like a wave. How did no one else notice? They were so unbothered, so unbothered… 

"Hey, uh. Denton?" Someone was thumping awkwardly on his back in a most unhelpful way. 

"You alright?" 

Racetrack's voice broke through the fog, not enough to shake Denton free of his memories, but it was something, at least. Something to focus on. 

Not enough. 

Not enough, not enough, absolutely not enough. Someone was yelling. A boy. He'd been shot. He fell, he was far too young to fight this. Could hardly even hold his weapon. God, he looked so much like Racetrack, with that hair, those laughing eyes. They weren't laughing now. Just pain and fear and then the glazed emptiness of death. 

Why was he here? Both of them? Why was a child fighting, and why couldn't Bryan do anything to help?

So young…

His face was all Bryan saw. That and blood. So much blood. 

And then somehow, he was seated on a bench, a little ways away from the crowd, beside a visibly uncomfortable Racetrack. 

He could breathe again, though each breath shook. 

How to explain _this_ to a boy?

Bryan ran a hand through his hair, somehow surprised to find it damp with sweat. 

"Racetrack, I-I'm truly sorry you had to see that."

The boy waved him off, albeit somewhat awkwardly. 

"Don't worry about it, I don't gotta know it all. I seen it plenty with the fellas," he explained.

"Don't _never_ call Skittery by Henry. 'S his real name, an' he hates it. Gets all," Racetrack gestured vaguely at Denton, who made a mental note to check up on Skittery more often. 

"Well, my article is certainly going to be below par after this," Denton sighed, changing the subject as quickly as possible. 

He didn't even know who'd _won_ the race, much less enough for a whole story, like his supervisors at _The Sun_ wanted from him. 

"I was meant to be watching that."

Racetrack perked up a bit. 

"I can tell ya what happened," he said cheerfully, immediately launching into an explanation that couldn't possibly be rivaled by any "legitimate" announcer, unless perhaps that announcer spent the previous evening in a barrel of strong alcohol and still had some residually in his brain. 

Bryan leaned back on the bench, trying to calm the slight tremble in his legs. 

He listened to Racetrack's rambling, focusing on the words, and not on the way his heart continued to pound with adrenaline. 

Gradually, his mind began to clear enough that he could manage standing, hopefully long enough to make it home. He could write from there, where it was quiet and far less likely to produce a repeat of the past few minutes.

He'd have a quiet evening at home, Denton decided. A quiet evening, and then be just fine tomorrow. 

* * *

When tomorrow did come, Denton was surprised to find that Racetrack hadn't spread news of the previous afternoon all throughout the Duane Street Lodging House. Surprised, and not a small amount grateful.

"Figured it wasn't none of their business," the boy had shrugged. 

"You's one 'a us, Denton. We looks out for each other."

Denton smiled, clapping a hand on Racetrack's shoulder. 

"Well, lunch is on me, then."

"Ain't it always?"

That burst of laughter was proof, clear as day, that all would be well. 


End file.
